


The best laid plans

by Lost_gallifrey



Series: Selected exerpts from 'The skyhold chronicles: It gets weirder.' [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Background Relationships, Eventual Smut, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Angst, Oblivious Cullen, Romantic Comedy, dissaproving Solas, everyone is just so helpfull, medling inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lost_gallifrey/pseuds/Lost_gallifrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian tries to woo an oblivious Commander Cullen....unfortunately he has friends who are determined to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Iron Bull is not a thing

**Author's Note:**

> In 'Backswing' I introduced the sad story of how Dorian tried to seduce an utterly, tragically oblivious Cullen, to the meddling amusement of the entire inner circle. Much like Dorian's friends, I'm just not going to leave it alone.....

_The quest to facilitate relations between Dorian Pavus and Cullen Rutherford became a project that involved every member of the Inquisitor's inner circle, and even caught the attention of the Herald herself, who was known to bet on the outcome with great enthusiasm. In fact, the only person who remained utterly unaware of the situation was the Commander himself._  
~From _The Skyhold Chronicles: It gets weirder_ by Varric Tethras

 

“You should hit Cullen if he doesn't listen, like The Iron Bull does with me.” Cole informed Dorian cheerfully, ignoring the sudden stunned silence from the rest of the table.

“Pardon?” Dorian said in a small, shocked voice, as if asking Cole to repeat the sentence would make it any less horrifying. “No, please don't say it again...there are some images I just don't need in my head.”

“Five royals if you put the Commander over your knee, Pavus!” Adaar slammed the coin down on the tabletop hard enough to knock over a few mugs of ale and scatter Blackwall's half-eaten dinner. “Do it in the next war council. I don't care about the iron your soldiers found, _wham!_ Or about the spindleweed, _wham!_ ” Adaar mimed an enthusiastic spanking on the abused planking of the tavern table.

“Can we talk about something else?” Cassandra said with a long suffering sigh as she rescued her wine glass from Adaar's boisterous demonstration. “Anything else.”

“Afraid you're going to start blushing, Seeker?” Varric twirled a quill in his fingers and winked outrageously. “And here I was sure you'd be the type to appreciate a firm hand.”

“Can we go back a minute please.” Solas leaned over the table, staring intently at Cole. “The Iron Bull hits you?”

“Oh honestly,” Vivienne set a delicate cup back in its exquisite matching saucer and shot Solas a haughty glare. “Your fascination with what the demon does with its crass, horned behemoth is becoming tiresome. I, for one, would much rather it keeps itself safely occupied.”

“Have you no concern for what might become of a benevolent spirit exposed to....exposed to...such..”

“The word you are looking for is sex, darling. Loud, messy, utterly base, common sex. And no, I am not even remotely concerned about the well being of that creature.” Vivienne pointed a stern finger at Cole who was just opening his mouth to speak. “And I do not wish to be contradicted, so be silent.”

“Ok, what have we got so far?” Adaar set her broad hands on the table as if she were directing a war council. “Cassandra thinks gifts would do it, Varric is going with dirty poetry. We've got spanking, thank you Cole.....and Sera thinks you should 'show him your arse'.”

“I don't know much about blokes....” Blackwall offered tentatively as Dorian buried his face in his hands with a melodramatic sigh. “But have you thought about talking to him....or just getting him drunk?”

___________________________________________________________________________

It was ridiculously expensive wine imported all the way from Val Royeaux and probably worth its weight in gold, and Dorian knew it was waste on a palate more accustomed to tavern ale, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't about to show up at Cullen's door with an inferior beverage.

The walk up the stairs towards Cullen's tower office was the longest walk of Dorian's life. It didn't help that Iron Bull had seen him and roused the Chargers to start clapping when he walked past the tavern. From the sound of it they were still cheering their approval and using the moment as an excuse to order another round of the rancid swill they were all pouring enthusiastically down their throats.

The robes were a gift from Lady Vivienne, and Dorian had to admit the woman has exceptional taste. Every aspect of them was flattering, accentuating what was already edging into the realm of true exquisite perfection....and the sensual feeling of true Antivan silk against his skin was like...

“Hands, or the dream of hands. Fingers soft and sliding, slipping against skin like a promise.”Cole was dangling his legs off the edge of the battlements, staring eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. “You like them, but you hope he tears them anyway.”

Dorian knew that lecturing Cole on the apparently abstract concept of privacy was about as pointless as telling Blackwall to bathe regularly. “Don't you have something to do?” He asked pointedly instead.

“Dorian,” Cole said with almost frightening innocence. “The Iron Bull is not a thing.”

When Cullen opened his door, Dorian was, for almost the first time in his life, speechless. Inanely he imagined all his glib, charming greetings sailing away into the evening sky.....maybe they were even shaped like the little winged penises Sera had gleefully added to Solas' mural. 

“Dorian!” Cullen smiled, actually _smiled_ at his guest. “Did we have a game scheduled?”

“Ahh, no....” Dorian held up the bottle of wine in hopeful entreaty and backed it up with his most winning smile. “But I have wine, in a bottle. A bottle of wine.”

In an ideal, imaginary Thedas, Cullen would ignore that embarrassing greeting and draw Dorian into his office, kissing him forcefully him until the bottle of wine was utterly forgotten. Instead Cullen peered at the wine in confusion, scratched at a stubbled cheek and responded with: “Actually, I was going over the latest reports from the Western Approach. I don't suppose you know anything about sulfur vents?”

Dorian knew absolutely nothing about sulfur vents, or the means by which to bypass them. He neither cared about, wanted to know about, or had ever, for any reason, shown any interest in sulfur vents. Actually, he wasn't even sure what a sulfur vent was. “Absolutely,” he enthused, “there are hundreds of them in Tevinter.”

The wine helped stave off glassy-eyed boredom as Cullen drew up, and repeatedly rejected, plans for boardwalks over the gaseous pools in question. Dorian half wanted to scream _why can't everyone just walk around!?_ But the wine really was good, and also his feet were possibly frozen to the floor because there was a giant hole in the roof.

“Are you injured?”About the third time Cullen rolled his left shoulder, wine had lent Dorian enough courage to comment.

“One of the new recruits,” Cullen admitted ruefully. “The boy has the makings of one of the best swordsmen I've ever trained. I admit I underestimated him, I'm so used to farm boys who hardly know what end of the sword to hold.”

“I'm no healer,” the wine said in Dorian's voice. “But I know a few tricks that might help?”

And that was how Dorian wound up standing behind Cullen's chair, rubbing his shoulders while the Commander moaned appreciatively and Dorian deeply regretted his snug choice in smallclothes. He could feel the tension easing out of the (very firm) muscles under his fingers, and if he was truly blessed, that tension would be relocating to other important parts of Cullen's anatomy. 

“Maker, you've got clever fingers.” Cullen sighed, dropping his head forward so Dorian could walk those fingers up his neck. “If you don't mind, I've got some elfroot oil....”

Dorian didn't mind at all, and neither did the wine, which suggested boldly that it would probably be for the best if Cullen took his shirt off.

There was no doubt that walking around in full armor had contributed to the development of musculature that Dorian very much wanted to examine with his tongue. For research purposes of course. _Sweet maker,_ Dorian thought. _Wheeee._

Cullen arched like a lithe jungle cat when Dorian pressed fingers into the muscles below his scapulae, and it was only the sharp, astringent smell of the elfroot that dissuaded the wine/Dorian hybrid from following each touch with his lips. Muscled shivered into relaxation and Cullen folded his torso down onto his desk, face resting against his forearms and eyes going soft and distant. 

“Mmmmm,” Cullen mumbled, rough voice barely audible. “Where did you learn to do this?”

 _”I had an excellent teacher,”_ Dorian meant to say, perhaps follow that little teaser about what else Rilienus had taught him, but all that came out was a strangled “Guh.”

“That must have been quite the vintage.” Cullen chuckled, the sound going to Dorian's gut and then enthusiastically heading south like it was demonstrating gravity to an attentive academy class.

Over the tang of the elfroot oil, Dorian could smell Cullen's natural scent. A heady mix of metal and leather so rich Dorian could almost taste on his tongue. He leaned forward, daring to ghost his breath over the back of the Commander's neck, relishing the heat of his back as is sank through the light material of his robes and pooled against his skin.

Emboldened by the warmly relaxed form under his hands, Dorian let his movements turn from soothing to languidly caressing. Cullen made a low, breathy noise and Dorian let himself press a bit closer, leaning over to daring rest his cheek against the Commander's broad shoulder. 

The noise came again, slow and slightly louder.......it was then that Dorian realized that Cullen was snoring.

___________________________________________________________________________

 

“Asleep. He fell asleep?” Adaar looked across the table at Dorian with a deeply disappointed expression on her barbarically painted face. “Oh, Pavus....”

“You cost me a few royals, Sparkler.” Varric sighed with heartbreaking loss as he handed a small stack of coins over to Iron Bull. “I can't really even make this look good in print.”

“You were taking bets?!” Cassandra sounded so horrified that Varric actually looked almost guilty. Almost. “How could you....trivialize this situation for profit. It's shameful...it's...”

Cassandra's look of betrayal deepened as Adaar guiltily passed Varric something that clinked on its way into the dwarf's pocket.

“So you just left?”Iron Bull shook his head with despair. “You need help, Vint.”

“We could help Dorian!” Cole said a little too eagerly, tilting his head up to look at Bull.

“No!” Solas said so loudly that several nearby tables turned to stare and Sera laughed so hard she choked on her drink until it bubbled out her nose.

“Charming,” Vivienne said, eyeing Sera with a level of distaste that somehow managed to include the entire table. With thumb and forefinger she extended a delicate, embroidered handkerchief in Sera's direction and winced visibly when the elf pressed it to her frothing nostrils.

“Not that I'm not usually eager to talk about myself,” Dorian started in a plaintive sort of way. “But can we please not talk about this, it's been a difficult evening. It's all been a bit hard to deal with.”

“Hard!” Sera managed to snort. “Hard bits!”

“Thank you ever so much for the reminder.” Dorian said with injured dignity.

“Awww, don't be sad, Pavus!” Adaar reached across the table to clap Dorian on the shoulder and nearly toppled him off his seat. “Ok, does anyone who isn't Cole have any ideas?”

“This really isn't necessary...” Dorian tried to protest, but Adaar was grinning like a madwoman and clearly warming to the idea of another brainstorming session. “I am capable of handling things on my own.”

“After that kind of warm up, I'll bet you were handling a lot on your own tonight.” Bull laughed, clearly far more amused by the witticism than anyone else. 

“Why can't I have ideas?” Cole asked in his usual breathy voice, peering out from under his hat. “I want to help. You all make it so tangled, Dorian should just tell Cullen that he wants to see him naked.”


	2. Skyhold is structurally unsound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inner circle convinces Dorian to take advantage of a snowstorm to win Cullen's attentions....whatever could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went from silly to complete tooth-rotting fluff. I blame the cold I managed to catch, it made me want to cuddle too. :D

_The great blizzard that struck Skyhold during the first year of the Inquisition brought record amounts of snow and ground most activities within the keep to a halt. One activity did flourish however, and the children born the following fall were burdened with the unfortunate moniker of 'blizzard babies'.  
After the pandemonium of the initial rescues and preparations, a mood of boredom settled over Skyhold. And as anyone can attest, nothing relieves boredom quite so much as meddling in the unsatisfactory love lives of ones closest friends._  
~From _The Skyhold Chronicles: It gets weirder_ By Varric Tethras

 

“Our beloved Herald is trying to kill me.” Dorian announced, patting a towel over his sodden hair. “I don't know why I would be selected to go out in this miserable weather in search of stragglers otherwise. She could have at least taken Blackwall, all that hair would have kept him warm, and he would have considered dying in a snowbank some sort of wonderful karmic martyrdom.”

“I'm right here you know.” Blackwall looked up from losing yet another round of diamondback to a smugly wealthy Solas. 

“Oh,” Dorian said brightly, “is that what that smell is. I thought someone had let a wet dog in here.”

“I don't hate you, Pavus!” Adaar paused in scraping ice off her horns to shoot Dorian a hurt glance that was made slightly ghoulish by her streaky, dripping vitaar. “I just figured if we found any dead people you could make them get up and walk back to Skyhold. It would have been wonderful!”

“It would have been a wonderful misuse of magic.” Vivienne swept up in a flurry of impeccable robes, apparently unaffected by the chaos of the grand hall as she navigated through the throng with several warmed blankets held at arms length. “Take these,” she prompted, pushing the armload of fabric at a confused Iron Bull.

“Umm, thank you ma'am, but I'm really not cold.”

“They aren't for you,” Vivienne huffed, determinedly not looking at anyone. “Your demon apparently doesn't possess the good sense to not rampage around in its shirtsleeves during a blizzard, and it wont listen to me. I would rather you tend to it before it gets ill and seeks to inhabit a more robust body.”

“Careful, Iron Lady,” Varric rested his chin on his hands and smiled. “Your humanity is showing.”

Vivienne didn't dignify that with anything more than a regal sniff as she stormed off. Iron Bull hauled himself up with a grunt, abandoning his drink with obvious regret. “Don't start without me,” he grumbled, throwing the blankets over one shoulder.

“What are we starting?” Dorian asked curiously, eyes narrowing as all his companions suddenly found themselves fascinated by Blackwall's third diamondback defeat of the hour. “Oh no, not this again. Please just let it go....”

“But it's a perfect opportunity,” Adaar protested. “You're here, he's here.....we just have to figure out how to get you in the same room. Think of it: the roar of the wind, a blazing fireplace, maybe some furs, wine...”

“You know,” Cassandra interjected, the fair skin of her cheeks darkening. “That idea really does have merit.” 

There was a headache determined to form behind Dorian's right eye. It had started during the walk back to Skyhold, around the time his cloak had become more water than wool and every snowflake had made an unerring leap down the back of his collar. Now it felt less like a headache, and more like a tiny demon petulantly kicking the inside of his skull each time one of his companions suggested some increasingly ridiculous plot to get Cullen into his bed.

It wasn't that Dorian wasn't totally in agreement with the concept. He wanted Cullen in his bed with an urgency that was actually quite embarrassing, he just didn't think that Adaar's complicated plan involving toffee pudding and a trebuchet was going to get him there. 

Around the time Sera pointed out that Solas was storing cards up his sleeve, the pandemonium reached such a level that Dorian could slip away unnoticed in search of some much needed peace. 

A blanket, a purloined mug of mulled wine, and a book of poetry that wasn't as awful as most of the tripe in the library suited Dorian just fine. The library was quiet and his favorite chair was thankfully vacant, apparently everyone preferred the vaguely controlled chaos in the great hall. The combination of creature comforts was going a long way to banishing the dreaded headache and making up for hours of getting soaked and half frozen. 

It was a moment of peace that simply couldn't last, not when Dorian was living in Skyhold and was friends with a group that could only be described (if one was being kind) as a misfit collection of deranged lunatics.

“Hello Dorian. He's very cold. He's worried about the pieces that mean people and places because the ravens can't fly in the snow.” An ice-crusted Cole pattered into Dorian's peaceful sanctum looking like the spirit of a ragged scarecrow that had died tragically in an avalanche and sat at his feet, looking up expectantly.”You should help him.”

“Who am I helping?” Dorian sighed, trying to make some sense of the nonsensical rubbish Cole was imparting on his poor, frozen brain. 

“Commander Cullen.” Cole explained, staring up at Dorian as if that should have been obvious. It was disconcerting to be looked at like that, especially when Cole didn't blink even when a piece of ice detached from his pale eyelashes and melted its way across his eyeball. “You should take him a blanket. Cold people should always have blankets.”

“I'll take that under advisement....thank you.” With a sigh, Dorian consigned his book and his mulled wine to his ever growing mental list of _'Enjoyable things I would have done if I didn't live with such weird people'._ “Would _you_ like a blanket?”

“No, thank you. The Iron Bull said we should have a hot bath even though I'm not dirty.” Cole tilted his head to think about that for a moment before his eternally sad face lit up. “It's not about being clean!”

“Congratulations. Did you just figure that out?”

“Yes.”

“I'm ever so glad Bull has found someone whom he can impress with his magnificent subtlety.” Dorian said snidely, determinedly not thinking about hot water, steam, slippery soap and...no. Not thinking about it at all.

Dorian was still actively not thinking about it when Cole trotted eagerly off, thankfully too distracted by Iron Bull's plans to inform everyone within earshot that Dorian was, in fact, thinking about it.

___________________________________________________________________________

Commander Cullen was leaning over the war table when Dorian cracked one of the huge double doors open. The torches did little to dispel the cold, and Cullen looked positively frozen as he looked up with that adorable little crease between his eyebrows.

If brow-furrowing ever became a sport, Skyhold had two champions in Cullen and Blackwall. There wasn't a sour chantry sister or grumpy magister alive that could match them.

“Dorian.” Cullen said in such a weary tone that Dorian suspected the man was spawning little exhaustion demons all over the fade. “Why aren't you out in the great hall with everyone else?”

“And miss all the excitement of staring at....whatever it is you're staring at?” Dorian walked over to the war-table with a bit of extra-elegant sway in his step, just in case Cullen was watching. (He wasn't) “Never.”

“I have six garrisons of Inquisition soldiers in the field.” Cullen pointed out a series of little statues that looked utterly indistinguishable from all the other little statues. “With all the ravens grounded because of the storm, I haven't had so much as a field report from any of them.”

“Are they in danger?” As crazed as she was, it was strange that Adaar would be ignoring a situation that could cost lives. “Should I call the other advisers?”

“Well....no.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and looked slightly embarrassed. “They are well equipped, and one patrol is even in the deep roads-so they'll be safe enough....it's just....”

Dorian was looking at a man in the throes of report-withdrawal. It was so ridiculous that, if Cullen hadn't looked so chilled and tired, Dorian probably would have laughed at him. Here was a man so dedicated to his concept of duty that he would rather freeze solid while fretting about well trained soldiers than enjoy a warm fire and the company of friends. Or a warm bed and the company of Dorian.

It took almost all of Dorian's restraint to not simply reduce the table to a pile of steaming ashes then and there. If he hadn't thought that Cullen would stare pensively at the rubble until he froze to the floor, he would have happily done so.

“At least come down to the great hall?” Dorian offered. He could do without the winking and grinning from his friends, but there was always the possibility of another game of wicked grace that would end with Josephine in possession of every stitch of clothing Cullen wore. “Have a hot meal, something to drink....”

“That's not a terrible idea,” Cullen agreed. “Then I can ask Inquisitor Adaar if there are any free rooms I could use. I should have listened to you when you said I should fix my roof, I'm afraid my bed is under about two feet of snow by now.”

Maybe it was the storm, or the headache,or the fact that Dorian had spent the last half hour trying not to think about what big, strong Bull was doing with Cole in the baths. Whatever the reason, it caused Dorian to blurt out the first thing that popped into his head, sounding so horribly desperate he almost wanted to stuff his hand in his mouth to stop the words from exiting it.

“I have a room.”As Cullen raised an eyebrow that was clearly as confused as he was, Dorian tried to salvage the situation. “The roof is solid, remarkably so. There's even a bed...”

A warm smile broke out over the Commander's face. It wasn't the lustful grin he had hoped for, but it was genuine and it made Dorian's stomach feel like he'd swallowed a moth or twenty. He was so busy imagining Cullen tangled in crimson Antivan-silk sheets that he hardly registered that the man was actually talking.

“That's very kind of you, Dorian,” Cullen smiled. “But I wouldn't dream of putting you out of your own quarters.”

For a minute, Dorian was sure Cullen was, as the perpetually uncouth Sera would say, 'taking the piss.' But there didn't seem to be any mockery on his face, just honest gratitude.....and, Maker, could one person be that damnably oblivious?

“Well, “ Dorian looked at Cullen's rugged, handsome face, lips curling into a smile he knew was nearly irresistible. “I rather thought we could share.”

There still wasn't any comprehension on Cullen's face, and Dorian could feel almost hysterical laughter welling up in his throat. Well, it was either laughter or those atrocious little deep mushroom cakes Josephine insisted on serving all the time. Whatever it was never did manage to emerge as there was a low grinding noise just before Dorian's world went abruptly sideways and turned white.

It wasn't unusual for Dorian to imagine being flat on his back on the war-room floor (or table) with a still-armored Commander Cullen between his legs. He didn't usually imagine the snow, ice chunks, broken masonry and biting cold though, or the fact that Cullen was really rather heavy and had landed on Dorian's stomach with a force that made breathing rather difficult.

“What in the Maker's name just happened, are you alright?” Dorian asked a groaning Cullen, or at least that's what he meant to say. The spasming of his airless lungs and utterly malfunctioning diaphragm relegated the words to a series of grunting, gasping noises that sounded like a varghest having relations with an asthmatic eel.

Cullen vented a definitely-not-enjoying this kind of groan and levered himself up onto his elbows, shaking snow out of his artfully tousled hair. “The roof collapsed,” he explained unnecessarily, staring up at the gaping hole where the ceiling used to be. “Are you alright, did anything hit you?”

_'You did, and it was absolutely glorious, you beautiful, chivalrous man.'_ Dorian tried to say. “Ergh,” he actually said, one eye watering as he gaped for air. “Huk.”

Then of course Adaar bounded in with sword drawn and hand glowing, face falling with disappointment when she realized that there were no demons or rifts to deal with. Vivienne trailed after her, stepping delicately over broken timbers, a surprisingly smug expression on her coldly beautiful face.

“Well, well.” Vivienne gloated as Adaar helpfully clouted Dorian on the back until he could breathe. “I must go find your scruffy apostate friend my dear. I will absolutely delight in informing him that his precious hovel is structurally unsound.”

___________________________________________________________________________

 

For lack of anything better to do, Dorian followed Adaar and Cullen around at they checked whether or not any other ceilings were in danger of collapsing under the weight of the snow, or if that was just something special that happened when Dorian was in the room. 

Cullen had either forgotten about or not processed Dorian's heartfelt invitation; either that or he was too distracted by staring grimly at the ceilings to remember being invited to the bed of a shockingly good looking Tevinter mage. Dorian wasn't entirely sure if he was relieved or disappointed. Being forgotten wasn't something he was familiar with, but he didn't generally blurt out pathetically desperate come-ons to oblivious former Templars either.

Around the time Blackwall arrived to assist Cullen in grimly staring at things, Dorian retreated and left the silent glaring to the professionals. The great hall was thankfully quiet, although the distant strains of raised voices that drifted from Solus' room attested to what had to be the most passive-aggressive argument in history.

Most of the people who hadn't retreated to their rooms or temporary barracks were asleep. Varric was face down and snoring on a scattering of wicked grace cards while Sera added her own guttural descant from beneath the table. 

The only sign of life was Iron Bull who had dragged dragged a sturdy chair over to the fireplace and was quietly rumbling his way through yet another implausible tale of Charger daring and bravery. Cole was a bundle of blankets and shaggy hair in Bull's lap, looking so content and relaxed that Dorian wanted nothing so much as to lob an ice spell at both of them. Well, ice might be extreme, but slush would be about perfect. 

“Just so you know,” Dorian informed them, feeling only slightly petty. “I actually rather despise both of you right now.”

“Awww.” Bull deadpanned, his huge hand resting on the back of Cole's neck. “That hurts, Dorian. If you wanted to join us, you only had to ask.”

“I....what?!” Dorian stared aghast as Iron Bull shifted Cole a bit and slapped a hand on his free, bench-sized thigh in open invitation. “I have absolutely no interest in....what vulgar term do you use? Ah, yes, 'riding the Bull.' None, whatsoever.”

“If you say so.” Bull said genially, “but I'm not offering that. Trust me, you'd know if I was.”

“The Iron Bull is very warm,” Cole encouraged, uncurling one long arm to offer a blanket to Dorian. “You would feel better.”

It spoke to just how sad Dorian's life had become that cuddling with a qunari the size of a mountain and a scruffy little demon was the best offer he'd had in weeks. It was utterly ridiculous, borderline obscene, and the blanket Cole had handed him was such horribly common, rough wool that Dorian would have been loathe to use it as a boot rag. 

“If you ever speak of this to anyone,” Dorian cautioned, settling his head against Bull's broad shoulder. “I will set you on fire, and when you are dead I will make your charred corpse perform antivan dance routines in Skyhold's main courtyard.”

“Could you?” Cole asked enthusiastically, missing the point of the threat completely. “I'm very bad at dancing, my feet don't listen at all.”

“You're good at other things, kadan.” Iron Bull smirked with his trademark lack of tact and subtlety.

Dorian groaned, dragging the uncomfortably scratchy blanket up over his head. Had he offended the Maker in some way? Was this his punishment?

The final insult came when Bull gave an amused snort that sounded like a bronto about to charge, and patted Dorian on his blanket shrouded head. “G'night 'vint.”


End file.
